


Lay the Sea At Your Feet

by missmungoe



Category: One Piece
Genre: F/M, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-07 00:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11612016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: Their son is the one who gets the straw hat, the legacy to carry on, but it's their daughter who looks at them, aged five, and declares herself, all pride and no shame to speak of—"Pirate King."





	Lay the Sea At Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been kinda prolific lately answering flower prompts over on tumblr. This prompt asked for Shanks & family + "camellia" (my destiny is in your hands) and "xeranthemum" (eternity, immortality), and I couldn't resist, my heart is weak.

A pirate’s freedom of choice has always sat at the bow of his heart — the freedom to choose the sea, and how to sail it; to choose your own life, and how to live it. And he’d chosen the sea, and a life on it — like he’d later chosen a land-bound life, when the sea let him go.

And it’s always been important that his children have that same freedom — that the world they fought so hard for would allow them their choices, whatever they turned out to be.

His son has little interest in the sea, at least not beyond the one found between the pages of his books. There’s a different kind of adventure in that heart, Shanks knows — a curiosity that seeks truth, and knowledge, if not necessarily the adventure to find it. And it’s his choice to make — his life to live, and Shanks had never imagined his whole brood would grow up to be pirates.

But — “Pirate  _King_ ,” his daughter, five years old, announces loudly, little chin lifted and her mother’s eyes fixed on Shanks, as though a deal has been struck in the speaking, and he’s now a witness, should the need for one ever arise.

“This is your doing,” Shanks tells Luffy, who only grins, seeming wholly pleased with himself. “And you do realise you’re encouraging her to pursue a title that  _you’re_  currently holding, right?”

“You only hold a throne until someone usurps it,” his son says, without looking up from the book in his lap. At the stunned silence that follows that statement, he lifts his gaze, and adds, carefully, “That’s what uncle Ben says.”

Shanks looks to Ben, aghast. “What are you  _teaching_  my kids?”

Ben only smiles, dry expression tellingly innocent, and, “Pirate King,” his daughter declares again, with a sharp, decisive nod of her head, as though the twice-invocation has sealed her fate — and with it, Shanks’.

And recognising the stubborn lift of that chin, Shanks is, reluctantly, inclined to agree.

 

—

 

The dream of swashbuckling grandeur doesn’t lessen with the years — on the contrary, it only grows, swells and crests with a boundless enthusiasm Shanks recognises as his own, if only tempered ever so slightly by her mother’s calm practicality. And it’s hard not to delight in it, recognising that  _smile_ , and the restless, always-anticipating heart, searching the horizon for ships, and dreaming of the seas beyond it.

She grows up, their swallow, half in the water, half on land, climbing the rigging on Luffy’s ship with her eyes closed, to scare the gulls perching on the mast, small hands steady on the ropes and her legs rooted to the planks, like she was born to live with sea under her feet. She can tie all the sailor’s knots Shanks can teach her by the time she’s six — and all of them again one-handed before she turns seven. She’s the best swimmer out of all her siblings, and can shoot a bottle at twenty paces without pausing for breath before she’s ten (Yasopp’s doing, to which he’d only looked at Shanks, brows raised, as though to say ‘oh  _this_  you have a problem with?’)

She braids her hair with flowers and seashells and her mother’s old kerchiefs — learns to cook, to navigate, to chart stars (“in case I can’t find a good navigator like Nami-nee right away, or a cook like Sanji-nii,” she says, matter-of-fact; so fiercely, wonderfully  _practical_  Shanks doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but “she’s yours,” he tells Makino, fondly, desperately, “they all say she’s mine but she’s  _yours_ ”).

She has no patience for her brother’s books, but delight brightens her eyes at an old compass tucked into her palm, one birthday among many. But Luffy catches on early, and her small treasure hoard fills up, odd trinkets brought from across the five seas — a looking glass from Roger’s time, and a map drawn by Luffy’s navigator, showing all the corners of the world, sea and sky alike. A seashell that records, voices and songs, and she knows every sea shanty that’s ever been sung, in every tavern and on every deck across the Four Blues, the Grand Line; grows up humming them into the sea breeze, into the spray, into her mother’s garden, as though in the hopes that the soil will sprout shells and seaweed, not flowers.

She’s a pirate before she’s twelve, small legs land-bound even as her heart travels beyond the port, but it’s not with impatience that she declares herself so (“the sea isn’t going anywhere,” she tells them, when asked, and, “the horizon will still be there when I’m old enough,” she adds, and Shanks doesn’t stop laughing for years).

And she’s right. The sea doesn’t go anywhere, doesn’t change, but  _she_  does — grows up, beautiful and bold, the years passing him by too fast for him to catch, to hold, seeming to slip through his fingers before he’s had the chance to try. It’s inevitable, Shanks knows. Their years aren’t numberless, even if his daughter treats them like they are — as though she’s got all the time in the world, all the weeks and months and years, and all of the sea in the world on which to spend it.

But part of him is glad of it, that she thinks that way, and that sea she desires is what it is; a kingdom under a king who values freedom above all other worldly treasures. It should be like that, for the young. And for the old, there’s freedom in the choice to kick back your feet, and watch the young conquer.

Of course, it’s easier said than done, and he might be  _old_ , but he’s still a father, and he knows the sea well enough that it’s not with an easy, complacent heart he’ll hand over the one he hasn’t forgotten the shape of, when it was still small enough to fit into the crook of his arm.

 

—

 

“It’ll be  _fine_ , dad.”

“There’s a storm brewing.”

“There isn’t a cloud in the sky,” his daughter says, patiently, her smile small; her mother’s too-clever thing.

“I can feel it in my bones,” Shanks tells her.

“Aren’t they a little old for that?” Makino asks, entirely unhelpful, and Shanks shoots her a look, as though to say  _traitor_. But all he gets for his troubles is the same smile staring back at him from their daughter’s face.

Shanks looks at the water — like his wife, traitorously calm under the aforementioned, uncluttered sky. “The weather might still change,” he says, and doesn’t care that he sounds hopeful. “You might want to wait it out — you don’t want to spend your first voyage retching your guts out. I’ve been there — it’s not pretty.”

“I don’t get seasick,” she tells him pertly. “I’m not Ace.”

“Hey,” her brother says, gently affronted, glancing up from his book, seeming plucked out of thin air. Where he’d kept it hidden on his person, Shanks has no idea; he stopped asking years ago.

Recognising a battle lost, Shanks looks to Luffy, observing their farewells with an unusual quietude. “Keep her safe, Anchor.”

A sigh from his right, fond and long-suffering. “Dad.”

“And keep her fed.”

“Dad.”

“And don’t let her call the shots — you know she’ll try.”

“ _Dad_.”

“And if she does try, you could always put her in a barrel and send her back home—”

“ _Shanks_ ,” Makino laughs, a hand on his arm. He doesn’t have to feign his pout.

For his part, Luffy only grins, and, “I will,” he says, to all of his demands in one fell swoop, as though it’s that easy, and with enough of that familiar, no-holds-barred determination that it allows Shanks to feel a little better.

Their girl rolls her eyes, but allows him his dramatics. And she is her mother’s daughter in that, Shanks thinks, as well as so many other things.

“Emmy,” her brother says then, drawing her attention. His book tucked back into its hiding place, Ace looks at her — considers her where she stands, well over a head shorter but towering like a captain, even if she’s far from that, yet.

Shanks watches her right her shoulders a bit under the quiet scrutiny. For all her quick-claimed authority, a captain of their home since before she learned to walk, she’s always respected her brother, even with his calm, bookish nature, so different from her own. But she’s never been one for telling others how to choose their dreams — or how to live them.

Then, reaching up, Shanks watches his son pluck the straw hat from his head, to place it on hers, and the expression alighting across her face chases that small, patient smile away, leaving something so earnestly  _startled,_  it looks suddenly vulnerable. More than she’d otherwise allow herself to be.

And she’s not eighteen then, in that moment. No, standing there, dark eyes too wide for her face and wonder brightening her features, she’s four, small hand tucked into his, watching a ship pull into port and asking,  _da, where does the big ship go, when it leaves?_

“There’s more chance of adventure where you’re going,” Ace tells her, repeating words that are older than he is. “Give it some good ones.” And when her lip trembles it yields a sob — a soft, laughing thing, because she’s always laughing; has been, ever since the day she learned how.

Free of the hat, their son’s hair glows, burnished copper under the sun, and the hat almost tips off her head when she throws her arms around him.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Ace tells her, wrapping her up, with too-long arms and hands that have always been more comfortable tracing book spines and pages than sword-handles and ship’s rope. “Mom will worry.”

She casts a glance behind them, meets Shanks’ eyes, and when her mouth purses with her smile, she doesn’t bother trying to hide how it trembles. “I don’t think mom is the one you need to worry about,” she tells him, thickly.

“Hey,” Shanks says, laughing, but can’t find it in himself to sound convincingly put-off. Makino says nothing, but then the hand shaking on his arm says enough. “Have some sympathy for your old man’s heart. It’s not getting any younger.”

They share a knowing smile — the way of siblings, mischief and unwavering loyalty all wrapped up, a sailor’s knot it will take more than a little distance to loosen.

Their baby sister lingers, quiet between Shanks and Makino until the opportunity presents itself, never one for claiming space, or attention, but her embrace is harder than Ace’s, small arms wound around her sister with conviction — with palpable reluctance.

“Sure you don’t want to come with me?” her sister asks, stroking her hand over her hair; a bright, unapologetic red. “You could use an adventure.”

That small back heaves, but it’s not a laugh that leaves her. Just a little over a year between them, but their differences are bright and vivid. Their youngest grew up with her feet planted firmly on land, wary of the water, and with no thirst for it.

There’s a part of him that’s relieved — a father’s small secret, the gladness that he won’t be losing both of them at once.

“I’m good,” their youngest says, tears coating the words. Then, and with enough glibness that his heart  _aches_  — “And I don’t think dad would survive both of us leaving at once,” she adds, quietly.

Laughing, Shanks doesn’t have the voice left to protest, or even agree.

It’s time to set sail — Luffy’s navigator makes the announcement, voice ringing clear across the wharf, and Shanks feels the truth of it toll in his chest, his too-old bones.

She makes for her mother first, and he knows that embrace. It’s the one that’s seen him off, time and time again, and to darker seas than the one their daughter is setting sail. And even if Makino is quicker to accept, he finds her reluctance in the shaking press of her palm against their daughter’s back, and the breath that’s dragged a little too deep to pretend that this comes easy.

It never has, he knows. But she’ll endure it now like she endured it once before, and no doubt with far more grace than he’ll manage in comparison.

“You’ll be careful,” Makino murmurs. A quiet order, and she’s given few in her life, but it falls without apology now.

“That’s a given,” their girl says — not with bombast and foolhardy determination, but a simple, matter-of-fact conviction; the same that she’d once used to announce that she wasn’t just going to be a pirate, she’d be the king of them all.

Makino pulls back, tucks her hair behind her ears, into the confines of the straw hat. Looks at her, delicate features and apple-round cheeks touched with freckles from the sun; the small testaments of a heart that’s always been living, half in the sea, half on land.

Releasing her mother, she turns to Ben, observing quietly. Shanks watches a smile lift the corner of his mouth. “Don’t start smoking,” he tells her, predictably deadpan.

She lifts her chin — tilts her head. “Quit while I’m away,” she counters, calmly defiant.

Ben laughs — a short, soft sound, but if anyone’s ever managed to drag it out of him, it’s been her. “We’ll see,” he says simply, but the grin overtaking her face tells Shanks plainly what results she expects from that challenge. She never was one for admitting defeat with ease.

She turns to Shanks then, her open face imploring and her mother’s eyes shaded by the hat that ties his whole life together, a red string like the ribbon around the brim.

He hugs her — tucks her under his arm, those small, restless wings and the heart that was always too big for their island. “Swallows always come home,” Shanks tells her, and feels her laughing, that bright, too-loud sound that puts even his to shame.

“Yeah,” she says, a quaver in her voice, and presses her nose to his chest. Her back caves under his hand. “Every year.”

Then — “I’ll learn some really dirty sea shanties,” she tells him, and he  _laughs_  — it pulls from deep in his chest, to fall against her hair, and the hat. “So obscene they’ll make you flinch,” she promises.

Shanks smiles. “I was singing you lewd songs while you were still in the womb, my girl,” he says. “There’s a challenge I’ll gladly meet.”

Drawing back, he lifts her hand — punctuates the promise with a kiss to her knuckles, and, “Do your worst,” he tells her — dares her.

She’s crying now, and she always cries like she laughs, loudly and earnestly, but for once her tears are silent, gathering at the corners of her mouth when she flashes him a grin. “If you think your heart can handle it.”

His own grin having stretched, so wide it almost hurts, Shanks nudges the straw hat back into place — a little too big for her head, slipping into her brow, over her hair, her mother’s bottle-green bleeding almost black in the shade of the hat’s wide brim.

And for a moment she just looks at him, and in her face he sees all their years — that grey morning when she’d caught them all by surprise, coming into the world. Her first, stumbling steps between the tables of her mother’s bar. The moment she fell in love with the sea, sitting on his arm, her small feet kicking at the cold water and her laughter a bubbling shriek of delight under his chin.

A kiss to her brow, and he lets her go — watches her wipe at her eyes, but there’s a skip in her step that she can’t hide as she approaches the ship, idling in the calm waters of the only port she’s ever known, beyond the stories he’s told her.

In her wake, Shanks watches the wharf — the preparations being made, for a departure he feels in his whole body, like a wire strung too tight, begging for release. He hasn’t felt this restless in years, and it’s not even on his own behalf.

“You always say that she’s mine more than anyone else’s,” comes Makino’s voice, stepping up beside him. Her hand reaches for his, her callouses soft, familiar, and the tuck of her head against his shoulder allows some of the tension in them to bleed out, of his muscles, of his bones. “But she’s always been yours,” she says, lifting her eyes to look at him. “And you know what that means.”

His sigh is as old as he feels, and his smile crooks in a wry, rueful twist. “That she’ll have a predilection for scotch, and a habit of picking fights when she’s drunk?”

He hears her laugh — that lovely, loving thing. Her fingers wrap around his, squeezing tight, and when she speaks her words are old, knowing—

“It means that she’ll always come  _back_.”

 

—

 

The years pass. She calls, and writes — sends her brother books (with notes attached, ‘ _you’ll never find someone if you keep your nose stuck in these things all the time, but if you insist, here’s one I think you’ll like’),_ and her mother ( _‘don’t show the covers to dad, you know he’ll just take it as a challenge, and he’s too old to be walking around without a shirt. Dad, if you’re reading this, I love you, but c’mon, let’s be real’),_ and her sister she’ll send odd trinkets that make no sense to the rest of them, but that’ll light up her face with a smile that lasts for days.

“I’m afraid to ask,” Shanks tells Makino, who only laughs, and allows them their private things, their small brood that grew out of the seabed, half on land, half in the water.

The years pass, until one day when she comes home with the tide — wholly unannounced, flitting back into their midst with the same ease she’s always had, their too-quick girl with her swallow’s wings.

It’s the middle of the night, and their island sleeps, but he hears the door creaking downstairs — recognises the presence, and the footsteps that have never quite managed to be  _quiet_.

A kiss to his cheek, rousing him out of sleep, and, “Dad,” comes the whisper, with a touch to his shoulder.

“The fridge is empty,” his daughter declares, loudly, and he’s tempted to toss the pillow at her head.

But Makino is already moving, wiping sleep from her eyes, before her arms are full of laughter, and their daughter (although they’ve always been one and the same, those words).

It takes longer for Shanks to follow, grumbling half-heartedly, but there’s another kiss to his cheek waiting when he does, and then their daughter is  _talking_  (and that’s his, too, the mouth that can never quite stay shut), the sound filling up their bedroom, their home, their whole island, until there’s no space left for the quiet at all.

There’s a whole crew in their kitchen when they arrive downstairs, and it’s so loud the night has no choice but to retreat, dragging the quiet with it, and Shanks forgets about lamenting Luffy’s influence, in this as surely as everything else.

Because there’s a feeling of things coming full circle, found in the old straw hat on their daughter’s head, and all the little things they’ve imparted on their children — their son, sleeping half-sprawled across the table, no more an early bird than Shanks ever was, and their youngest, compelling her sister’s bluster to ease into something bearable, smoothing the too-sharp edges of her laughter, her voice.

And it’s not a king returned, not yet, but it’s never mattered to them what she made of herself, sailor or pirate or king or queen, because she’s always been  _theirs_ , even with all the freedom in the world, and the whole sea at her feet, to be whatever she liked.

 


End file.
